Chapter 3

Aro

“I’m not dead yet,” I gasp. “Not yet.”

I pull at every door in the alleyway, knowing I’m wasting my time. It’s late. Everywhere is closed.

But one gives way, and I don’t bother to wonder why. Slipping quickly inside, I search for a lock to keep the police out, but it’s dark and all I feel is a deadbolt as my fingers graze the keyhole.

Shit. I choke back my fear, breathing hard as I back away from the door, watching it and knowing. They’re going to come through. They will. I don’t think they saw where I went, but they’ll figure it out. This is it.

Matty. Bianca. Everything will hurt them, and I won’t be there.

“Check every door!” I hear a muffled shout.

I draw in a sharp breath, realizing they’re right outside. I stumble back, bumping into something, the legs of a table screeching across the floor.

I whip around, seeing I’m in some kind of kitchen just as a cop shouts, “Here!”

No.

I bolt, pushing around the steel worktable and past the ovens lining the wall, the lingering smell of cherries and sugar drifting around me. I dash through the two-way door, into the shop with coffee machines, a display case, and a counter—dishes, cups, and other supplies are stacked underneath.

Frosted. I catch the name of the bakery on one of the paper menus sitting by the register.

Racing to the front door, I yank at it, but it doesn’t open. I run to the windows, squeezing between small round tables, and hesitate, gauging whether I should use one of the chairs to break a window. But then lights flash, a cruiser’s lights approaching down the street, and I spin around, hiding myself behind the patch of wall between the windows.

“Goddammit,” I grit out.

The back door slams shut, and I hear a sharp voice bellow. “You have nowhere to go!” he says.

I stumble off to the side, my eyes planted on the two-way door. I shake my head, my eyes stinging.

“We’re coming through the door!” he warns. “Put your hands above your head! Say ‘okay’ if you understand.”

I back up, slamming into the wall, but my palms press against something smoother. Something cold.

I hear their feet shuffle, the walls closing in and at my back. There’s no way out. I drop my head, knowing Hugo was right. It was only a matter of time.

The hinges on the two-way door creak as the cops start to come, and I close my eyes, ready.

But then…my stomach drops, and I pop my eyes open as I fall backward.

What?

I gasp, a hand covering my mouth and an arm wrapping around my waist as my body is hauled backward, just as the kitchen door opens.

What the hell?

We stop, they hold me to their body, the entrance in front of me closes, and I watch as the cops enter the eatery, flashlights scanning the space.

No. I jerk away from the hand, but they hold me tight.

“Shhh...” he bites out next to my ear.

The cops approach on the other side of the window, and I jerk to escape, because they’ll see me, but the arms won’t let me go.

“Don’t move,” he says in a quiet voice.

We watch the police flash their lights around the shop—around us, over us, but never on us. They pass, never seeing, and search the space, not seeming to notice us here.

Can they not see us?

I remember seeing a large mirror with a gilded frame on the right wall when I burst through the door. I stop breathing for a moment as one of the police officers approaches, two feet in front of us, flashing his light on the glass.

He sees something. I shake.

But then I see it too. Blood. My blood is on the mirror. When did I get hurt? I try to take inventory of my body, but my blood is pumping too hard to notice anything else.

The stranger’s hand falls away from my mouth, but I don’t move, waiting for the cop to see us.

He stands there, his breath fogging up the glass as he inspects the stain, confirming what he already knew. I was here. Now I’m not.

He backs away, all them making their way through the kitchen door again and disappearing. Off to look for me wherever I’d gone.

Arms release me, and I jerk my head around, seeing Hawken Trent glaring down at me. “This is awesome,” he gripes. “What the hell do I do with you now?”

As if I’m his problem and he didn’t one-hundred percent escalate what went down tonight right along with me.

He turns and walks away, down a long hallway that’s too dark for me to gauge its length or have any clue about where the hell I am. I follow the white of his T-shirt before I lose sight of him.

“What is this place?” I ask. “How do I get out?”

He says nothing, and I stay on his tail, going deeper and deeper into a black void until we come to a short set of stairs leading down. A small, wrought iron chandelier hangs at the bottom, finally giving the space some light.

“How do I get out?” I shout, chasing after him.

I got the cops off my tail. Now I want to leave.

“And where are you going to go?” he retorts.

We descend the stairs, and I follow him as he veers right and steps into a room with no windows, cement walls, and an array of monitors posted above a desk, camera footage displayed on the screens. I catch sight of intersections, the ticket booth for their movie theater, the lanes inside the bowling alley. Rivertown.

“You just lost what…?” he challenges. “Eighty, maybe ninety grand from the looks of what was in that bag, not counting the three-dozen bags of blow hidden underneath.” He takes a seat at the desk, observing the screens. “If Green Street doesn’t get to you first, that cop will, because I’m guessing it was his. They’ll already be staking out your house.”

“You think I’m going to sit around here and wait for you to turn me over to them?” I reply. “Or use me for whatever bullshit you have planned? Pinche gringo pervertido pedazo de mierda…”

He glances at me. “Up the stairwell,” he says, typing away on his screen and inputting some kind of code. “To the roof. There’s a fire escape.” He pushes his keyboard away from him, shoves his chair back on its wheels, and rises, reaching behind a hard drive and yanking out cords. “Bye.”

I hesitate for just a moment. I didn’t expect him to let me leave. Why the hell did he grab me in the first place then?

Spinning around, I stalk out of the room, run back up the stairwell we just came down, but instead of heading back down the dark hallway, I turn right and see a faint light from the other end of the tunnel. I make my way over, coming into a great room, and I stop in my tracks, my mouth falling open a little.

Jesus. I tip my head back and gape at the high ceiling, the night sky visible through the windows above. Couches sit around the space, a TV set up as well as a few industrial-looking chandeliers. A kitchen sits to the back, countertops and appliances making it suitable for someone to live here long term, and I see a spiral staircase leading to a door in the ceiling above.

I rush over, grabbing the railing and launching myself up the stairs, around and around until I come to the top. I hunch over, the space small as I push my weight up onto the hatch and lift it. The welcome fresh air of the evening breeze caresses my face, and I see the tops of the trees that line High Street loom past the expanse of the roof.

I start to push the door all the way open but then stop.

Where will I go? What if I want to get back in?

Does the mirror open from the outside?

I drop the hatch, closing it again and descend the stairs until I can stand upright.

I stop, thinking. He’s letting me leave. He’s not a threat.

Yet anyway.

And he’s right. The police won’t be the only ones after me. If I get taken, I’m no good to Matty and Bianca. Right now—maybe—I still have a chance.

I descend the stairs, glancing at the brick wall to my left, in front of the couches, and see words written in large white script. The paint looks a hundred years old, and I don’t know what language it is. I don’t care.

I search out the rich kid, finding him still in the surveillance room or whatever he calls it. I don’t know why he helped me, but I know it wasn’t just because he wanted to.

“There will be a warrant out for you,” I tell him, staring at his back as he works. “But unlike me, you can just call Mommy and Daddy. The Trents own this town, don’t they?”

His father’s and uncles’ names are everywhere. Billboards, newspapers, businesses…

“Green Street won’t come after you,” I point out, “especially since you can identify Reeves. I mean, I’ll go to jail, but you’ll be fine.”

He still doesn’t turn to look at me, and I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jacket, leveling my gaze on him.

I’ve seen him plenty of times. I don’t think he’s ever seen me before tonight. He wouldn’t notice someone like me. Unless he’s ordering his caramel Frappuccino.

I step up to him. “Give me my phone.”

“Give me my wallet.”

The image of it plummeting into the pond pops into my head, and he must’ve seen it happen, which is why he knows I don’t have it.

“You can sleep on the couch,” he says as he checks the monitors, probably for police. “And there’s food in the kitchen. If you leave, you can’t get back in without me. Don’t tell anyone about this place, and stay out of my way.”

And he leaves the room, not once looking at me.

A flashlight sits on the desk, and I grab it, heading out of the room. Going back the way we came in, I climb the stairs again and walk down the long hallway, able to see the route more clearly now. The walls are cement, like the floors, but they’re painted black, the ceiling of the tunnel rounded like an arch and cords run along the walls, attaching to lamps overhead every twenty paces.

Coming up to the mirror, I look through the two-way glass and see the bakery is still empty and dark. I push on it, but it doesn’t give. I flash my light around the frame, feeling with my hands until I run across a latch. I press it, the mirror giving way with a quiet click and opening into me.

That’s what he did. My stomach drops a little, remembering the sensation of falling backward. I step into the shop, casting my eyes and light around one more time to make sure it’s empty, and keeping my eye on the street outside the windows for movement.

I search the outside of the mirror, looking for a way in from this side, but as I paw around the ornate gold frame, all I feel are the same straight lines, leaving no space between the mirror and the wall. How many people know about this? Are there more entrances to the hideout?

I pull my sleeve down over my hand and wipe my blood off the mirror. Headlights reflect on the store windows across the street, and I dive back through the secret entrance, pushing it closed. Looks like he didn’t lie about that. There’s no way in that I can see. He must access it through the roof normally, but then that raises the questions… Is he the only one who knows about this place? How’d he know that it was here to begin with? Is it part of the bakery that his family owns?

I jog back down the hallway, coming into the great room again and see the stars dot the night sky out of the windows. The room is large, but it’s long, not wide. Narrow. Sandwiched between two businesses, the pastry shop and Rivertown. This place isn’t accessible to either the street or the alleyway, but you can tell it’s here from the outside. Unfortunately, most of us and our untrained eyes would just assume the windows belonged to one of the adjoining businesses.

Up the stairs again, and through the door in the ceiling, I step up onto the roof and turn off my flashlight, doing a scan of the empty space. The roof connects to others.

Fire escape. That’s what he meant. Over the side of the roof.

Trees dot the curb on High Street, giving me cover from anyone who might be up high enough to see me, but I peer over the edge, noticing the sidewalk is in full view. It’s a good spot. I can see whomever would be there. They wouldn’t be able to see me.

Taking one more look around, I dive back into the hideout and close the door over my head.

I don’t have a phone. I have to get one. I walk as quietly as possible back into the surveillance room, catching sight of Golden Boy on the monitors. He must have cameras inside this place.

He’s jump roping. How cute. We’re running for our lives, and bro-for-brains is pursuing inner calm with endorphins and green tea.

But I linger on his image for a second, finally forcing my eyes away and kind of wishing the image of him without his shirt was clearer.

Using the mouse, I load the Internet, bringing up my account and type out a message to Hugo. A rare car streams past a few of the screens here and there in front of me, activity dying down in town, and I spot a patrol car turning onto High Street and hold my breath as it slowly cruises past the bakery and then Rivertown, not stopping.

Don’t let him hurt anyone, I type out to Hugo.

Reeves will get his money one way or another. He may not tackle Hawke’s high-profile family, but mine is fair game.

I’ve never asked you for anything, I write. I’ll get the money back.

I know you will.

Desperation breeds motivation, right?I remind him of his words to me years ago.

But are you desperate enough?he asks.

I stare at his words on the screen, understanding the implied threat.

Leave them alone.

I would never hurt them, Aro.Come home.

I stand there, leaning over the desk and my fingers hovering over the keyboard. This is the part of being in trouble I hate. But it’s the part I’m good at. There’s never been a decision for me that’s as easy as right and wrong. It’s simply finding the choice that leaves me with the most options and the least consequences.

If I go back, there are two outcomes with Reeves. A bullet or a bed.

You’re only prolonging the inevitable, Hugo types when I don’t respond. Put yourself out of your misery, baby.

But bullet or bed, my siblings would be safer than they are now. I have to go back.

I log off, close out the screen, and back away like he’s about to reach through the monitors and take me.

Why did I do that tonight? Why did Hawken Trent help me? Twice? And why did I help him? I should’ve let them have him.

I lower my eyes, dazed as my head swims. An array of shit lies all over the desk, and I slowly take it in.

A couple of fake IDs with his picture on them. Newspaper clippings of his dad and uncles, his beautiful family smiling at the opening of some speedway or dining at some restaurant or golfing. A stack of college brochures and so much computer and electronic equipment, books and manuals, information and ambition and possibilities pouring off every shelf and out of every drawer.

He’s smart. Educated. Rich. Connected.

He didn’t need my help. In a couple of weeks, he’ll be starting college, and I’ll only be worth the money Hugo and Reeves can make off of me. I’ll be dead in five years, and he’ll be skiing.

A sound, like singing, breaks through my thoughts, and I look up, seeing movement on the monitors. Two bodies close in around the door on the roof, two more climbing up over the ledge from the fire escapes and coming this way. My heart rate speeds up.

They all stop, looking at something, and I take the mouse, zooming in on one of the faces.

“You know you can’t leave now, right, Rebel?” he says, and I notice it’s Kade Caruthers.

He smiles, and one by one they all disappear through the hole in the top of the roof, entering the hideout.

Can’t leave? What?The door in the roof closes, and I suck in a breath, realizing they’re inside, and then…

Two clicks reverberate inside the walls, echoing all around me, and I dart my eyes back to the screen, seeing the word LOCKDOWN in a red box at the bottom of the center monitor.

I run, back up the stairs, to the left, and down the hallway to the mirror, knowing I’ll run into them if I go the other way. I grab the latch at the top and press it, but nothing moves. Not the latch. Not the mirror.

I press it again. Nothing.

Laughter echoes behind me, no less than five Pirates somewhere in the hideout locked in with me.

I fall back against the cold, cement wall.

I should’ve left when I had the chance.